cavity search… This is a song I wrote. The down and dirty dozen and the cops were kissin’ cousins And they left me with the tools, cause I’m the best at getting screwed You lobbied like a lawyer, fed me reasons like they’re food But I’ve been beaten I’ve been starved into a more carnivorous mood Now I want to fill my hunger but I don’t know where to start A girl with an actual heart A girl with an actual heart   I was sucked into your chest where you held me like your breath And you left me in that hollowness to entertain myself With all the other things in life we never cared to tell between Psychotropics, opiates, carcinogens, amphetamines Recreational or chronic, who can tell the two apart? And a girl with an actual heart A girl with an actual heart   My arm was fully able when I pulled up to the table But my will to win just buckled at the whiteness of your knuckles So I lay my arm down easy, I don’t want to make you strain And I don’t mind being beaten ‘cause it keeps me entertained Now, who could ever turn away from such an easy mark? A girl with an actual heart A girl with an actual heart   If not your hand, use your fist If not my heart, at least my wrist Just hold onto something Don’t leave me with nothing   If I just escape and hide I think the best that I would find Would be somebody I could teach to help me reenact our crimes So I’ve got to go to ground before I start to bottom out There are things it does me so much better to forget about Sleeping soundly, breathing easy, finding my way in the dark A girl with an actual heart A girl with an actual heart

cavity search…

This is a song I wrote.

The down and dirty dozen and the cops were kissin’ cousins

And they left me with the tools, cause I’m the best at getting screwed

You lobbied like a lawyer, fed me reasons like they’re food

But I’ve been beaten I’ve been starved into a more carnivorous mood

Now I want to fill my hunger but I don’t know where to start

A girl with an actual heart

A girl with an actual heart

 

I was sucked into your chest where you held me like your breath

And you left me in that hollowness to entertain myself

With all the other things in life we never cared to tell between

Psychotropics, opiates, carcinogens, amphetamines

Recreational or chronic, who can tell the two apart?

And a girl with an actual heart

A girl with an actual heart

 

My arm was fully able when I pulled up to the table

But my will to win just buckled at the whiteness of your knuckles

So I lay my arm down easy, I don’t want to make you strain

And I don’t mind being beaten ‘cause it keeps me entertained

Now, who could ever turn away from such an easy mark?

A girl with an actual heart

A girl with an actual heart

 

If not your hand, use your fist

If not my heart, at least my wrist

Just hold onto something

Don’t leave me with nothing

 

If I just escape and hide I think the best that I would find

Would be somebody I could teach to help me reenact our crimes

So I’ve got to go to ground before I start to bottom out

There are things it does me so much better to forget about

Sleeping soundly, breathing easy, finding my way in the dark

A girl with an actual heart

A girl with an actual heart

I have (again) become obsessed with these lyrics. “I clawed at your skirt like it was a dirt floor And I could dig my way free of myself taking more But prisoners know nothing of victory at war Let’s call it a truce for now Georgia looks covered in blood from the air Where the clay and the river fight and run as a pair And women comb brambles and stones from their hair Let’s call it a truce for now True revelation is a thug and it comes With narrow grey eyes, not the rolling of drums And it may take your hands but it’s seeking your thumbs Let’s call it a truce for now We’ll call it a truce for now” Ouch. Damn.

I have (again) become obsessed with these lyrics.

“I clawed at your skirt like it was a dirt floor And I could dig my way free of myself taking more But prisoners know nothing of victory at war Let’s call it a truce for now

Georgia looks covered in blood from the air Where the clay and the river fight and run as a pair And women comb brambles and stones from their hair Let’s call it a truce for now

True revelation is a thug and it comes With narrow grey eyes, not the rolling of drums And it may take your hands but it’s seeking your thumbs Let’s call it a truce for now

We’ll call it a truce for now”

Ouch. Damn.

New Ryan Adams songs that are good. →
drewharkins: I started running when I was 12 years old because those who joined the cross-country team received a varsity letter, whether they competed on the varsity squad or not. It was an awkward exercise in vanity, but it was good conditioning for basketball season. On the court I played with every ounce of wit I could muster, but I knew my first step would never be quick enough to play in college. My muscles are hardwired for endurance, not explosion. I entered high school and grew tall and lean. And I started to get good at running. Before my sophomore year, I trained over 50 miles per week in preparation for cross-country season. All summer, I slept with the words “All State” taped to the footboard of my bed. I visualized the podium in my dreams at night. I quit playing basketball so I could focus on my goal. I didn’t begin to discover my charm until I was about 16. When you’re in high school, you take yourself pretty seriously, because every minute of your day is an exercise in social development. Those long runs were cathartic, because I believed the harder and longer I ran, the more I could purge myself of insecurities. Through athletic and academic success, I would prove that I was worthy.   The first race I won, it was because I made a decision to take the lead and never look back. By the third mile of the 5k, my closest competitor was 300 yards behind. I gave it all I had left.   Every high school runner worshipped Prefontaine because he was a runner of marginal talent. He was the embodiment of mental toughness. He milked every ounce out of what God gave him. I worshipped Prefontaine because I ran every race like he did. I didn’t have the finishing speed to sit on the leader’s heels and surge with that final kick. My only hope was to go out as fast as I could and simply hold on. During my junior year, I injured my knee and began to focus more on hanging out and being popular. I never ended up running in college or placing all-state again. Steve Prefontaine crashed his car while driving home from a party late one night. He was 24 years old. In the movies, right before that inevitable denouement, he’s painted as plotting out the 400-meter splits he would need to win the 5k in the 1976 Olympics. I’m 27 years old now. The reason I still run is because I can’t look at a picture of Pre without literally feeling it in my blood; without viscerally feeling my lungs burning, lactic acid building, my legs unable to maintain gait. It’s also why I’m still so goddamned competitive. To beat me, you’re going to have to prove you’re stronger. That sophomore season, I received a recruiting letter from Yale. Maybe I should’ve kept it on my desk a little longer.
…Like a long goodbye…… That most cherished and reviled of days on the calendar, Valentine’s Day, is almost here.  For we reflective types, V-day invariably goads us to take stock of our “love lives.”  This, for me, is a stroll through beautiful, thorny roses: Not all pleasure, not all pain. It’s mostly just confusing, which is why I go back and forth on whether “taking stock” is even worth a damn.  Why not just toss it in the fuck-it bucket and wait for Spring, right? But sometime music MAKES you take that walk and I love music for that. It’s like a guided tour through your own thoughts or a really quick, cheap therapy session. The song “Nashville” by David Mead is one of those, for me.   You know the part toward the end of every rom-com where the beleaguered hero makes a last, desperate play for his love’s heart, extols his virtues, admits his vices and shows how well he knows her in little ways only a true love would notice? Well, this song takes place on the car ride home after our plucky hero has been mercilessly shut down. Hand. Face. Peace. So he’s wondering if he’s leaving his true happiness in the rear-view. He wonders if he was only wreaking havoc in her life, the bad guy she needed saving from all along.  He’ll never know.  So often we have to be okay with not knowing the answers.  Sometimes it’s enough to know we aren’t the only ones asking the questions.  Listen here. David Mead - “Nashville” http://youtu.be/nEGM3pOf_yc

…Like a long goodbye……

That most cherished and reviled of days on the calendar, Valentine’s Day, is almost here.  For we reflective types, V-day invariably goads us to take stock of our “love lives.”  This, for me, is a stroll through beautiful, thorny roses: Not all pleasure, not all pain. It’s mostly just confusing, which is why I go back and forth on whether “taking stock” is even worth a damn.  Why not just toss it in the fuck-it bucket and wait for Spring, right?

But sometime music MAKES you take that walk and I love music for that. It’s like a guided tour through your own thoughts or a really quick, cheap therapy session. The song “Nashville” by David Mead is one of those, for me.  

You know the part toward the end of every rom-com where the beleaguered hero makes a last, desperate play for his love’s heart, extols his virtues, admits his vices and shows how well he knows her in little ways only a true love would notice? Well, this song takes place on the car ride home after our plucky hero has been mercilessly shut down. Hand. Face. Peace.

So he’s wondering if he’s leaving his true happiness in the rear-view. He wonders if he was only wreaking havoc in her life, the bad guy she needed saving from all along.  He’ll never know. 

So often we have to be okay with not knowing the answers.  Sometimes it’s enough to know we aren’t the only ones asking the questions.  Listen here.

David Mead - “Nashville” http://youtu.be/nEGM3pOf_yc

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